


Ornaments

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: Christmas Prompts [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A-Z Christmas Prompt, Baubles, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John is a Mess, John is pondering, M/M, Nostalgia, Pining John, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Tension, Trinkets, but he's an idiot, sherlock is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21808117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: He stumbled to one side, or was more accurately elbowed to one side, caught his breath and was about to leave when something caught his eye on their Christmas display.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Christmas Prompts [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559605
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	Ornaments

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Gem_Gem: Kittie wrote all of this by herself, when I was stressed from editing - And then I edited it and added some bits and pieces. Most is her though!

London was bustling with people as John ducked out of the tube station on Oxford Street. He wanted to look for a new pair of work shoes, having found a large hole in his usual brogues, but the crowds of Londoners, of tourists were already getting on his nerves. There were so many of them, so many with bundled up bags, suitcases, and snapping cameras. They would stop suddenly, without warning, to take a photo or answer the phone or look into a shop window, and it was infuriating. It felt like they were almost doing it on purpose, that they somehow knew that John was trying to get somewhere, that he was out on a task and would prefer to get it done as quickly as possible, like they knew that John was trying to overtake them and get away, get by, get through.

Crossing the street, John was caught up in a gaggle of school kids, obviously on a trip, causing mayhem by insisting on walking in a huge group, the kind of group which took up all of the pavement. Grumbling unhappily, John swore under his breath and walked along the kerb, dodging puddles and rubbish until there was a mostly clear spot he could jump into, could slip in front of everyone and speed ahead. Sadly, as he did so, as he pushed on and tried to distance himself as much as possible from the surrounding messy, cramped streets, it seemed as though a great chunk of the pedestrians around him were going into the same shop at the same time, and like a tidal wave, John was pulled, pushed, tripped right along with them, unable to find a way of escape.

The shop itself was full of trinkets and odds-and-ends, which probably explained why so many of the tourists had bombarded the place, but it wasn't really that useful for a man after a pair of shoes. He stumbled to one side, or was more accurately elbowed to one side, caught his breath and was about to leave when something caught his eye on their Christmas display. Each ornament was a novelty, most London themed such as the bridges, Big Ben or the Queens Guards, but it was a smaller set that had been what had drawn him, because they were brightly coloured and utterly perfect for Sherlock. A fantastic representation of him, of his talents, his skills, his work. Just three small flasks on silver thread, glinting in the overhead lights, were what seemingly called for John to go over for a closer look. Each bauble, each ornament, was shaped like a cylindrical flask, one looking as if it was filled with blue liquid, the other red and the last green. It was science-y and innovative and John couldn't help himself, couldn't walk away and leave such a find, and so made his way over, giving as much as he got of pushing and shoving until he made it to where the boxed up versions were and lifted one up.

“Ah, they're fun aren't they?” The man behind the counter beamed, trying to catch John's attention to make a sale, leaning over, gesturing and waving toward the stack. “Yeah, they're _really_ popular.”

John doubted it, unless there was a huge craze for science that he had missed in the BMJ, but judging from the remaining boxes he didn't think so, “I'll take them,” he said with a plastered, wide smile of his own, not really interested in watching the man flail to make them more exciting than they were. Checking the price, he strolled over and opened his wallet, taking out a crisp twenty pound note between two fingers. "I want a bag too please. If you have any."

“For yourself are they?” the assistant asked with a nod, taking the box and the note, “Or a friend?”

Well, that was a question. Were Sherlock and him still just friends? Will they ever be just friends again?

Nothing seemed to have changed between them too much. He expected more tension, much more, and more awkward pauses, averted gazes, heart stopping moments of intense panic, more ways that exposed the open sores, the widening cracks of their friendship. Yet John had woken up to go to work and Sherlock had been seated at the kitchen table, messing around with something in a petri dish, something indistinguishable, something John had no intentions on asking about. They had barely spoken, had only looked at each other once, in passing, but the silence hadn't been overly unpleasant or cloying – rather the opposite in fact – it seemed like all of the tension and bad air between them had been swept away, had been replaced with serenity. It had been nice, if a little suspicious. Was that it now, were they done, were they okay? John had tested the waters a bit then, had smoothed down Sherlock's dressing gown collar, had patted him on the back, had ruffled his fingers through the soft, small curls at Sherlock's nape, before he'd then left for work, telling Sherlock on his way to get a shower. A grumble had followed him out, something wicked muttered under Sherlock's breath, most probably a curse or a peevish deduction, a snide, immature retort. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing new. Nothing he hadn't dealt with before.

Blinking out of his thoughts, John realised with a bubble of guilt that the assistant was still talking, and so he smiled and nodded along, too polite to ask what the man had said, for him to repeat it. He didn't need to know. The man had made the sale, had done is job, whatever else he said was of no interest to John, didn't affect the purchase in any way shape or form. For all John knew, he could have been saying something about the added price of the bag, or what the things were made out of, but thankfully, whatever it had been, didn't stop John from reaching for everything, including his change, and throwing out a muttered goodbye. John left the shop, stepping back out into the teaming throng of annoying civilisation, and tightened his hand, keeping his treasure, his brilliant find, close and out the way of any wandering, stealing hands.

When he finally returned to the flat, sweaty and disgruntled at the selfishness of other people being alive, John took off his coat and shoes, clicked on the kettle and began brewing himself a cup of tea, the bags of both his special trinkets and new shoes dangling from his fingers, plastic constricting frustratingly. Sherlock, he found out, had taken his advice and was in the shower judging by the sound of running water, and so John used it to his advantage, quickly heading for the living room, for their tree, a plan forming. A quick plan, a simple plan, to put the new ornaments onto the tree and see if Sherlock noticed. He would notice, John knew. Of course he would notice. But when? How long would it take him? Sherlock hardly ever looked at the tree, only through it, or only with a glare when the lights ticked on, still making him flinch despite the routined timer.

Unwrapping them from their box, John threaded the silver and then carefully and artfully arranged the baubles onto the limbs of the tree, watching as they lit up with the reflection of the fairy lights. Grinning happily, John looked at them for a moment and considered his childhood, how John of five years ago would have reacted if he knew what was happening right at this moment, knew how much pleasure he would get from science beaker decorations. Things that meant something. Items that had more character to them than the generic Christmas baubles of red, gold, and green. How he had started a new tradition with them.

Returning to his awaiting cuppa, John cradled it and leaned against the counter top, drinking and thinking as he watched the lights of the tree blink. He couldn't remember a time when he had been happier. Even in the army, which had been one of the highlights of his life, John hadn't been as content with Christmas as he was right now. 

The beakers didn't just represent Sherlock's love of science, John decided, it represented their whole new life here in Baker Street, and every year when he would pull them from their box to decorate the tree, John would sit back and remember this point – this cup of tea, in this quiet flat, with this warm feeling of happiness in his belly - he would remember how far he'd come, how far both Sherlock and John had come. He hoped there would be time for it in the future, hoped there was a future for them, that they wouldn't fall apart, wouldn't crumble under the weight of unsaid words and unexplained actions. Hoped the thick, strangling tension wouldn't return to doom them both.

Anxiety was one hell of a thing.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels us! 
> 
> [Kittie's Twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3hill)  
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)  
> 


End file.
